Prologue #2
The sound erupting out of me doesn’t even feel human. I fold forward, hands over my face, and everything I am just—breaks.
I sit cross-legged on the dorm floor, the tile cold through my sweats. I don’t even remember sitting, but I’m here—staring at the wall like maybe it’ll tell me what to do. My body feels heavy, like I’m filled with wet sand.
Cami’s next to me, quiet for once. She doesn’t try to fix it. Her hand rests on my leg lightly, like she’s afraid I’ll break if she presses too hard.
This place—this school—was supposed to be our dream.
Every all-nighter, every scholarship form, and every overtime shift my dad picked up was a promise that it would mean something someday.
Mom’s handwriting still lives in the margins of my essays, along with her little notes telling me to breathe, to eat, and to believe in myself.
Dad’s hands were always cracked and stained, but his tired yet proud smile shined every time I called home with good news.
I chased perfect grades like they were oxygen, working shifts and studying every day until my eyes burned, because failing them wasn’t an option.
It wasn’t just my dream. It was ours.
And now, without them, it’s just… empty.
Time doesn’t move right anymore. It stretches and folds. One second I’m numb, staring at nothing, and the next, I’m sobbing so hard my chest hurts. Cami pulls me into her arms, and I let her, but it doesn’t help. The world doesn’t stop shaking. Nothing can fix this.
“I’m so sorry, Vi,” she whispers. “You don’t have to figure this all out tonight.”
But she’s wrong. I do. Ella’s alone in a hospital somewhere, scared out of her mind. I’m all she has left. I can’t fall apart—not yet.
The university said they’ll pack and ship my things. Cami promised to hide anything that could get me in trouble—the lab gear, the drugs, anything I couldn’t afford to explain.
For all her designer heels and champagne sparkle, she’s smarter than most people realize. As a business major, she’s sharp as cut glass, already planning the empire she’ll own one day.
We were never supposed to work, her and me. Trust fund and scholarship. Manhattan and Jersey. But we did. Somehow we did.
“I’ll help however I can,” she says, even though we both know she can’t. She shouldn’t have to.
This is mine to carry. She’ll go home to New York and rule her world. I’ll go home to pick up the pieces of mine.
Saying goodbye feels like losing another limb.
Tears sting my eyes again, and the list of everything I’ve lost grows longer—my parents, my future, my best friend, and the version of my life that should’ve been.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “For everything.”
Cami yanks me in and hugs me tight enough to hurt. “You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I wish she were right. Right now, I don’t feel strong. I feel cracked open.
But for Ella, I’ll find the pieces. Part of me died with them, but the rest belongs to her.
The Weight of Loss
1 Year Later
Violet
The walls of my childhood home feel too small and almost suffocating. Everything looks the same, but none of it feels like home anymore. The house smells like Mom’s perfume, but she isn’t here to wear it anymore.
I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the unopened mail—piles of it.
I tell myself I’ll open it after my coffee, but I know that's a lie. Every envelope feels like a dare I’m too tired to take.
Bills. Condolences. Legal notices. One from the bank, right on top.
I don’t need to open it to know what it says.
I can’t afford to keep this house, and soon the bank will take it back.
This home was their life’s work they built for us, and now it’s slipping away, no matter how hard I fight it.
The life insurance money ran out months ago. I stretched it as far as I could — skipped meals, paid bills late, smiled through the lies so Ella wouldn’t worry. But pretending doesn’t stop the bank notices.
My job at the vet clinic is the only reason we’re keeping our heads above water. Dr. Martinez knew my dad, and when she heard what happened, she offered me a job before I could even ask. “Family comes first,” she told me. And she meant it.
The work isn’t glamorous — answering phones, cleaning kennels, managing appointments — but it’s steady, and the hours mean I can be there when Ella needs me. That kind of grace is rare.
I take a sip of cold coffee, and my mind starts to wander. A year has crawled by, though sometimes it feels like a lifetime pressed into a single night. The knock on my dorm door still echoes like it just happened. It’s been a year since everything cracked apart in an instant.
The seasons changed, but I barely noticed them—winter blurred into spring, spring to summer, and back into fall again, and nothing felt different. Holidays passed like static, while birthdays came and went without candles or celebration. Time stopped meaning anything after that day.
I still remember sitting in that hospital waiting room.
The smell of antiseptic clings to my clothes, and the sound of some distant machine beeping in rhythm with my heart.
I must’ve prayed to every God I didn’t believe in, begging for something—anything—to undo it. But the world kept moving forward.
Now it’s just me and Ella, measuring life in small moments: hospital checkups, specialist followups, and therapy appointments. The days don’t feel like days anymore, just time passing, whether I’m ready or not.
Ella missed nearly half a year of school, and even now, catching up has been a battle.
Her teachers are understanding and patient because, before the accident, she was at the top of her class, but the gaps in her learning frustrate her.
I try to remind her she’s doing her best, but I know how much she hates feeling behind and out of control. At least she has Sam.
Sam came into her life like she’d been there all along — small but fierce, all freckles and sharp opinions.
She walks Ella to class and waits outside the bathrooms when Ella gets overwhelmed.
Sam sits with her at lunch, doing whatever Ella needs without showing her pity.
She just shows up. Every day. I owe that girl more than I could ever repay.
The scars on Ella’s skin are fading, but the ones I can’t see are much worse.
She can’t stand being in cars. The first time I drove her anywhere, she cried the entire time.
Now, she goes quiet, and her seatbelt pulls so tight it creaks, while her eyes lock straight ahead.
I keep the radio low and talk about nothing — the weather, or the grocery list, or a stray cat I saw on the porch — anything to fill the silence.
Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t.
The accident never ended for her; it just changed shape.
The nightmares come in waves, and they’re nearly every night. Some are quiet — just the sound of her turning, tangled in her sheets, while she’s caught somewhere between a dream and a memory. Other nights, they hit like a storm. She wakes screaming, drenched in sweat, and gasping for air.
It’s always the same dream; the crash, the wreckage, and the moment she realized Mom and Dad weren’t moving.
I rub my temples, forcing myself to breathe, and grounding myself in the moment.
Right now, I need to call the realtor, start packing, and find an apartment we can afford.
Every time I picture boxing Mom’s dishes or Dad’s old records, it feels like tearing pieces of them away.
I’m trapped in my grief, unable to move forward.
My phone buzzes, and a message from Cami lights up the screen.
Cami: You breathing, babe?
I smile faintly and reply,
Me: Barely. Just another day of pretending I’m fine.
Cami: That’s my overachiever. We should meet up this weekend.
She’s back in New York City with her business degree and a party planning job, living the life she was born into.
She forced me to stay in touch even when I didn't have the energy.
She keeps conversation when I can't find anything to say, whether it’s about skyscrapers and deadlines, or about her new boyfriend who probably wears cologne worth more than my rent.
She asks about Ella every time. She makes me laugh when I need it most.
We’re in different worlds now, but somehow, she’s still one of my best friends.
I set the phone down and rub my eyes, staring into the quiet. The house hums faintly, the fridge clicking on in the background, and the air thick with the kind of silence that makes you hold your breath.
Then I hear it — that sharp cry. My chair scrapes, and I run the hall. The sound of my feet against the hallway feels too loud and too slow. By the time I reach her room, she’s already fighting the blankets. Her face twists in terror, while her lips move around words that don’t make sense.
“Ella, hey.” My voice trembles as I kneel beside the bed, reaching for her hand. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
Her skin is clammy, her fingers cold and rigid around mine. “I couldn’t—” Her voice breaks into a sob. “I couldn’t wake them up.”
I climb into the bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her shaking body. She clings to me like she’s still trying to drag them from the darkness. I hold her tighter, whispering whatever words come out. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, but she needs to hear something. Anything.
After a while, her breathing slows, though her body still trembles against me. Then, in a voice so small it almost breaks me, she whispers, “Do you remember when Mom would make pancakes shaped like animals?”
A ghost of a smile touches my mouth. “Yeah, you always wanted a cat, but she could never get the ears right.”
A soft laugh escapes her—fragile, fleeting—but for a second, she’s just my sister again, the one from before.
“I really miss them,” she murmurs.
“I know.” I brush her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.
She swallows hard, her lashes wet from tears. “I hate sleeping.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “Me too.”
I stay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks I’ve memorized.
Eventually, she falls asleep again. However, every time I close my eyes, I see her lying in that hospital bed, tiny and pale, hooked up to too many machines, so I jolt awake.
I just lie there and wait for the light to start shifting through the curtains before I finally rise and head down the hall.
The kitchen looks exactly the same as before.
The same mess. The same silence. I drop my phone on the counter and stare at it for a while.
The screen lights with the faint reflection of my face — tired eyes that are red-rimmed and hollow.
The voicemail sits there at the top of my screen.
It’s the one I’ve never been able to delete.
My thumb hovers over it, and I press play.
My mom’s voice fills the room, soft and steady, untouched by everything that’s happened since.
“Hey, sweetheart. Just calling to check in. I know you’re busy, but call me when you get a chance, okay? We miss you. And we’re so proud of you. Love you.”
I close my eyes and press the phone against my chest. If I stay still enough, I can almost pretend she’s still here.
Almost.
The anger comes quietly, curling beneath my ribs. I’m angry at the world, at myself, and at everything I can’t fix, but mostly, it’s just the ache that never leaves.
Before the accident, I had plans. I was going to finish my degree, maybe work in research, maybe actually do something that mattered, and I had a future.
Now there’s just what’s left—the version of me that runs on coffee, worry, and whatever pieces I can still hold together. The rest of me didn’t make it out.